“Good heavens!  European clothing!” exclaimed Adrienne, gayly.  “Poor young prince!  Heaven preserve him from that; and me also!  Chance has sent hither from the heart of India, a mortal so far favored as never to have worn the abominable European costume—­those hideous habits, and frightful hats, which render the men so ridiculous, so ugly, that in truth there is not a single good quality to be discovered in them, nor one spark of what can either captivate or attract!  There comes to me at last a handsome young prince from the East, where the men are clothed in silk and cashmere.  Most assuredly I’ll not miss this rare and unique opportunity of exposing myself to a very serious and formidable temptation!  No, no! not a European dress for me, though poor Dupont requests it!  But the name—­the name of this dear prince!  Once more, what a singular event is this!  If it should turn out to be that cousin from beyond the Ganges!  During my childhood, I have heard so much in praise of his royal father!  Oh!  I shall be quite ravished to give his son the kind reception which he merits!” And then she read on: 

“If, besides this small sum, honored madame, you are so kind as to give him, and also his companion, the means of reaching Paris, you will confer a very great service upon this poor young prince, who is at present so unfortunate.

“To conclude, I know enough of your delicacy to be aware that it would perhaps be agreeable to you to afford this succor to the prince without being known as his benefactress; in which case, I beg that you will be pleased to command me; and you may rely upon my discretion.  If, on the contrary, you wish to address it directly to himself, his name is, as it has been written for me by his countrymen, Prince Djalma, son of Radja sing, King of Mundi.”

“Djalma!” said Adrienne, quickly, and appearing to call up her recollections, “Radja-sing!  Yes—­that is it!  These are the very names that my father so often repeated, while telling me that there was nothing more chivalric or heroic in the world than the old king, our relation by marriage; and the son has not derogated, it would seem, from that character.  Yes, Djalma, Radja-sing—­once more, that is it—­such names are not so common,” she added, smiling, “that one should either forget or confound them with others.  This Djalma is my cousin!  Brave and good—­young and charming! above all, he has never worn the horrid European dress!  And destitute of every resource!  This is quite ravishing!  It is too much happiness at once!  Quick, quick let us improvise a pretty fairy tale, of which the handsome and beloved prince shall be the hero!  The poor bird of the golden and azure plumage has wandered into our dismal climate; but he will find here, at least, something to remind him of his native region of sunshine and perfumes!” Then, addressing one of her women, she said:  “Georgette, take paper and write, my child!” The young girl went to the gilt, illuminated table, which contained materials for writing; and, having seated herself, she said to her mistress:  “I await orders.”